Illustration (AI)
The alleyway back in August is filled with yellow flower petals. The narrow alleyway runs across the silent houses with closed doors. The flower fields in front of someone's yard seem to be wearing a thin, gentle August dress. Thousands of delicate flower petals follow the rhythm of the wind and fall under the footsteps of passing people. Is it because the wings of autumn have just passed by here that the alleyway of yellow flowers suddenly becomes so quiet and profound? The sunbeams are tilted along the path like footprints of summer, seemingly still lingering in the old, spacious place. A cool, gentle scent wafts back, stirring my mind, taking me to a land of infinite fragrance.
All of it seems to remind me of the old Augusts. The Augusts I have gone through and put in the drawer of time, keeping the scents of the gentle autumn sky. So today, in the moment of the changing seasons, I suddenly remember the scent of ripe guava hidden in the garden of gently blooming flowers and leaves. The guava canopy covers the outside of the window, in spring the small, discreetly fragrant flowers bloom white. But they still delicately send a bit of pollen into the wind to call the bees to come back to find honey. From the nutrients of the homeland's soil, the guava clusters gradually grow in the call of the season and nestle behind the interwoven branches and leaves in the sunlight. And then, as August approaches the threshold, the scent of ripe guava seems to gently open the door of autumn, awakening the echoes of a pure childhood.
The guavas on the lower floors often bear the fingerprints of our children. Those are traces of the eagerness to wait for the ripe fruit, to be held tenderly in the small hands of the soft, fragrant guava. The guavas are plump as if they have been waiting for a long time, so that when autumn has just begun on the porch, the intoxicating fragrance from the ripe fruit suddenly fills the familiar sky. Each fruit is imbued with the fresh, honeyed sunlight, deeply penetrating the pink flesh, the riper it becomes, the sweeter it becomes. The scent of childhood seems to melt into a distant midday dream. Later, on dry afternoons in the early autumn sun, I open the window to let the gentle wind play with the pages of an old book. Sometimes I catch the scent of ripe guava, both near and far, and I am fortunate to meet again with the clear land of memories.
Does the alleyway back to August still retain the footprints of the old days? The hesitant footprints of the first day of school on a distant autumn morning. My small footprints trotting to school, along the hedge hibiscus flowers blooming like lanterns, calling butterflies to come and dance happily. August opens the pages of the notebook, each stroke is neat, the autumn wind gently touches the cheeks, the cheeks are flushed. My village school is by the river, covered with clouds and sky, August pours golden sunlight onto the sand. I keep imagining the straight silhouettes of boats anchored along the dike like piano keys. The breeze makes the boat sway gently as if playing each musical note, weaving a private love song to send to the white clouds.
Stepping on the alley in August, I heard the rustling sound of my mother's broom sweeping the autumn leaves. The bamboo leaves and guava leaves, soaked in the sun and dry, twisted in the wind with the strong scent of the earth, were neatly swept by my mother under the tree roots. Then my mother gathered them into a pile in the airy corner of the yard, lit them on fire and lit them up. The sound of my mother's broom echoed through the autumn alley, in the afternoons, the sun slanted half of it at the end of the alley, the other half was covered in blue smoke. My mother's shadow blended into the shadow of the wall next door, with old bricks. Every time I returned, the sound of my mother's broom seemed to sweep away all the worries and worries in me. Leaving only the simplicity of my heart wrapped up in the corner of the countryside filled with the scent of jasmine and grapefruit. There was my mother's back, bent over all her life, so that my dream could be fulfilled.
I have gone further than the places I once wished to set foot. I have not recognized the childhood alley that has been filled with years but still waits for my every step to return. Like my mother, like my sister, every afternoon I still sit combing my hair and looking into the distance. Then in August I return to the small alley, listening to the wind blowing all around, filled with a deep longing…/.
Tran Van Thien
Source: https://baolongan.vn/ngo-ve-thang-tam-a199913.html
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